Work Text:
-
As the door shut quietly, Baelor considered his options.
Pacing around like a wild animal, right before him, his little brother seemed unaware of the intrusion, his attention fixed only on the fastening around his throat.
Arms folded, the eldest of the Princes leant against the doors, his eyes following Maekar wherever he was going. The chamber was silent, its quietude broken only by distant sounds of conversation and the small 'fucks' from Maekar. It had indeed been a long day.
To celebrate the name day of their Mother, Queen Myriah, King Daeron had come up with the idea of a celebration with music and food from the Queen’s motherland, and an endless list of guests and kins, not only to restore friendly relations between the two kingdoms, but also to prove to everyone how strong and stable his kingship remained. For the occasion, he had requested his four sons to wear new doublets and clothes made with the most refined material and prettiest gems -which Maekar absolutely hated. His measurements have been taken four months prior to the event, and at the tender age of three-and-ten, the body changes drastically in a short period of time. He couldn’t breathe in it.
The moment the laces of the collar garment were undone, Maekar pulled the stifling red cloth off of himself, straightening the simpler shirt he was wearing beneath it and, finally, feeling like air could reach his lungs for the first time since this morning. Free of any constriction, he made the mistake of looking over his shoulder, and frowned: "Why are you not at the feast?"
"I came here to ask you the same."
"I asked first!" he hissed.
As if in concerned contemplation at the harsh tone, Baelor slightly tilted his head and smiled. "I was worried. And Father wants all his sons present for Mother's name day."
"Well, just tell them I feel sick,” he retorted, throwing the useless doublet on a chair with no deference, “or whatever fucking lie you can make up!"
Unhurriedly, Baelor moved from the door. There was a bottle of Dornish wine in his left hand, stolen from a too docile servant, and he spotted a plate of fruits, untouched, with two empty cups, on a table by the bed.
"Maekar," his name was above a whisper between his lips -he always treated the two syllables with care, "what happened?"
No answer. The dark haired Prince poured one cup of wine, then a second one, and turned to face his brother. His prolonged glance continued for at least ten more seconds and, eventually, Maekar cleared his throat with annoyance.
"Oh don't look at me like that Baelor!" he commanded, pointing at his big brother like a spoiled child. "When you fix those mismatched eyes of yours in me, I feel as if I was judged by both Father and Mother at the same time!"
With a steady gait, Baelor stepped closer to his brother, handing him a cup. Maekar sniffed at it, not yet accustomed to drinking alcohol. He took two mouthfuls of it and felt relieved when Baelor didn't highlight the wince that followed.
"I heard two lords talking about me. And-" Maekar sipped another mouthful, to temporize or for courage, he didn’t know. "Yes, I know I shouldn't give a fuck! But, they didn't know I could hear them, and they were talking about you, and I, and our two other brothers, and they talked about how I was the shortest one. And the disfigured one! And the powerless one! And how they pity my future spouse! And- Seven hells! If it was not Mother's name day, I would have asked for these two fucking bastards to be stretched on the rack to make them regret their words! And-"
Droplets of wine landed on the rug, Maker’s hand trembling with irritation as he recounted the memory.
i should have killed them, he thought, jaw clenching.
After years in his company, Baelor had gained the skill to decipher any sound or silence coming from Maekar, and this one was no different. He observed his brother over the rim of his cup, swallowed the sweet liquor and wiped the corner of his lips with the tip of his tongue.
“They are only words,” Baelor said with his even-tempered tone, “ignore them.”
Maekar’s eyes widened imperceptibly. Of all the people, Baelor should be the one understanding his discontent and murderous urges. Whispers and mockeries and insults, Baelor had faced them since his very first cries. Hair too curly. Eyes too queer. Skin too dark. Too Dornish. Too different.
too handsome
Yet, as far as he could remember, Maekar never witnessed his brother’s ire. And right now, his perpetual moderation was not what he desired from him.
"Fine! Well I guess I'm just fucking superficial like everybody else!" he spitted out, a scowl crossing his face as he kept pacing around his chamber. "Well except for you of fucking course! The always charming and perfect Prince Baelor, flawless and stainless and above the torments of the rest of us, simple mortals!"
Baelor's mouth quirked up. "You think I'm charming?"
"Oh shut the fuck up!"
In an exasperated sigh, Maekar sat down on the edge of his bed and took another swipe of wine, mumbling something intangible against the cup. No grimace this time, the alcohol slowly easing his character.
With elegance, the older Prince went around the bed to stand right in front where his brother sat, making Maekar look up to keep eye contact. "Be damned the man who pronounced that cursed word in front of you for the first time," Baelor joked.
A snort. "Most fucking likely you brother."
The tall Prince downed the rest of his wine in one go, placed the empty cup on the ground by the bed, and sat down by his brother' s side. Their shoulders bumped gently, their knees brushed, and for a while there was just companionable silence.
Reaching out a hand, Baelor tucked an errant lock of silver hair behind Maekar' ear and smiled, eyes searching his, and his fingers lingered there longer than necessary until they retreated. "They are wrong Maekar. You are disarmingly beautiful," he said, honest, truly meaning it, "in the way only wild things can be."
The lightest shade of pink crossed Maekar cheeks and it was the prettiest color Baelor has ever seen.
"Fuck you!" Maekar snarled, and dramatically let himself fall back on the mattress, legs dangling over the edge of it. "Stop fucking making fun of me!"
“I am not.”
Running a hand through his dark curls, Baelor stared down long seconds at his little brother. He grabbed the empty cup Maekar was still holding in his hand to set it away on the floor, and flopped down on the mattress next to him. "Why do you always feel the need to antagonize everything,” he asked cautiously, more wondering to himself than asking him, “whether it is an untamed mare, or a devious uncle, or a genuine compliment? Why do you want to fight all the time?"
"Because if I don't, no one will fight for me."
The whispered words filled the room with a resounding meaning. Maekar turned his face to look into mismatched irises, deeply, and he found himself memorizing every detail, every shade, every trait, as if he was watching them for the first time, and something in Baelor’s eyes teetered.
"That is not true," the older Prince answered with determination. "I would."
"Well, you will be the only one then."
"Am I not enough?"
yes
"I- don’t know." Maekar blinked slowly, before squeezing his own hands into fists and then releasing them, flat on the mattress. "I'm just a spare, the fourth son. I know my place and I’ve made my peace with it."
"Maekar the Peaceful." A smile graced Baelor’s lips.
"I would be the last one they would save if the Red Keep was on fire.” The words were so quiet, so faint, they seemed to be forbidden, and Baelor had to strain his ears to listen. “Our parents."
The older Prince turned over to lay on his side, an arm crooked beneath his head. "Father and Mother love you, sweetling."
"That is not what I meant, I know they love me. But just- less than you. Or Aerys. Or Rhaegel” Maekar opened his mouth to speak more, closed it, and then opened it and closed it again… He has never been the most articulate one, even more on such matters. “And I do not blame them! You can not give the same amount of affection to everybody ; it's fucking absurd."
Silence fell, their eyes never straying from each other. There was a truth in his brother’s words difficult to dispute, but Baelor would like to try anyway. He placed a hand on Maekar’s chest, finding his heartbeat, the gentle thump thump thump pulsing beneath his palm.
"I am not certain of that,” he began to explain. “Are the septons not claiming love is the only entity that grows the more you split it?” Maekar snorted at the religious rhetoric, and the vibration made its way through Baelor’s fingers. “If it’s not, your theory can be applied to anybody I imagine. To yourself as well. Then, Maekar, tell me. Who is your favourite brother?" he asked, pleased by his own demonstration. Baelor always had the daunting talent to lead Maekar wherever he wanted him.
Again, a rosy blush crept up the young Prince' s cheeks.
do not pretend you don’t know
"Rhaegel of course."
A laugh came out of Baelor's lips and Maekar has always loved this too rare sound. "Of course it's Rhaegel."
With his weight on his right forearm to remain on his side, Baelor shifted imperceptibly, leaning closer to his little brother to stare down at him. He reached his hand to cup Maekar's cheek, thumb rubbing idly over a few marks. "Brother, I wish you could see yourself through my eyes. You are loved. And beautiful."
Purple eyes rolled. "Not with those hideous scars."
"You should be proud of them. They are your first battle scars."
"Pox scars" he rectified.
"No.” Baelor’s hand slid down from Maekar’s cheek to cradle his jaw and draw his face closer, where a hint of delicate pink dusted the cheekbones. When the dark haired Prince talked again, Maekar could feel the whispers of his breath on his lips and the end of his nose. “Maybe you were too young, or the fever took your memory away, but you fought the pox for days. Gods… you were so little! I wanted to join you in this battle but I couldn’t. I could only pray the Sevens to keep you safe." His face was stern at the record, ache in his shining eyes. "But you won. All by yourself. Your first victory. These scars just prove how brave and strong you are."
Maekar bit down on his bottom lip. "...I hate them," he said with complete honesty he only gave to his eldest brother.
Baelor shook his head.
"No. They are beautiful. You are beautiful, sweetling." His fingers traced Maekar’s jawline before sliding down to his throat. "Let me show you, please?"
The unforeseen request puzzled the young Prince and he tried to read the face inches from his, staring into eyes like he was searching for the answer to a riddle or a secret code behind the layers of brow and purple pigments.
But Baelor didn’t give away the solution. He leaned down and pressed a kiss on Maekar’s brow, chaste and light, the same kind of kiss he used to give him when they were little and he would tuck him into bed at night.
For the second time today, Maekar struggled for air.
Baelor pressed another kiss to the same spot before drawing back slightly. Then, another kiss just by the previous one. And another kiss, and another, and another; it turned into an indefinite series of kisses, without clear beginning or end… until realization dawned on Maekar like a scalding hot flame: he was kissing his scars. Every single one of them. Deliberately.
As Baelor continued sprinkling kisses on each mark his mouth encountered, the young Prince laid still, blinking rapidly, pale violet irises fixed on the canopy above him. Without realizing it, Maekar has stopped breathing.
"If -if you kiss them all,” he said with an unrecognizable voice, “it will take you hours."
Baelor pulled back just an inch. "Patience is one of my many virtues brother."
He swept a thumb over Maekar’s flushed cheekbone and went back to his meticulous task, kissing a large rosy mark by the ear Maekar had the habit of covering with his hair. The touches were reverent but insistent. Baelor kissed just like he did everything else: controlled and with every ounce of his focus.
The kisses started to linger longer and longer on each spot. More intense. What began with lightness and innocence, turned into something more fervent. Baelor’s mouth was now half-opening against Maekar’s jaw and his fingers slid up to cup it. The hold was firm but gentle, loose enough not to hurt but solid enough to maneuver his little brother’s head the way Baelor wanted to.
With no warning, the older Prince opened his mouth on the delicate imperfections and ran the tip of his tongue on them. The contact made Maekar gasp but it didn’t stop -even through the scar tissues, Maekar could feel the wetness of the tongue. Baelor layered one, two, three kisses on a different knot of pink tiny craters and again, ran his tongue on them.
The soft touch brought forth all sorts of emotions to the surface in a way Maekar wasn’t prepared to deal with. He swallowed hard. "You shouldn't… it's disgusting."
i'm disgusting
Baelor breathed into his little brother's neck, lapping just in its curve, where sweat started to form. Then he moved back and looked down.
"Nothing from you is disgusting," he muttered, low and steady, as if this was the only truth he knew. Maekar wanted to believe him.
Baelor then leant over, warm fingers still around Maekar’s jaw, and for a second the young Prince thought he was about to get kissed on the mouth. But Baelor’s lips landed just by the corner of his own, where a faint scar marred the skin. Again, his tongue brushed the rosy wound and Maekar realized how close their tongues were and how if he opened his own mouth and tilted his head, they would-
His ears and the back of his eyes burned up at the outrageous idea.
i’m disgusting!
After a mere second of confusion, his rumination came to a halt when Baelor dragged his tongue rhythmically up and down his neck column, covering it with a thin coat of saliva. He alternated between sweet and tender kisses on each mark, and devouring mouth and tongue licking the moment after.
When the wet muscle lapped just on his pulse, the sensation made Maekar feel more than a little crazy.
It felt… pleasant, he realized with a measure of guilt. The young Prince had always found being in the press of the general mass of the court exhausting, and the notion of being the center of attention in anything required by protocol or decorum was nearly alarming. Give him a horse, a sword and something to lash his anger on, and Maekar would spend days alone without uttering a word.
But being the center of Baelor’s attention felt entirely different, something rare Maekar would never admit he had sought for and something scarce the heir of the throne seemed to seldom give purposely.
Now, with Baelor’s tongue lapping on his beating pulse, Maekar knew to finally be the heart of all his brother’s focus -and after having hoped for it so long, he couldn’t reject it now.
So, he grasped for the sheets, fists clenched, and remained perfectly still on the mattress, pressed between the featherbed and Baelor’s half body on top of him. The raspy, damp tongue kept running on his jawline, and another trail of kisses sprayed from his chin up his cheekbone, acknowledging each mark.
The caresses ceased when Baelor’s mouth left his skin, lips glistened like dark rubies, and he stared down at him, an arm bent to support his weight. "Sweetling,” it was almost embarrassing how the nickname impacted the younger Prince, “do you have scars anywhere else?"
Maekar should have lied, but he did not.
"Y-yes, a… a few on my chest."
An expression that Maekar had never seen crossed his brother’s face.
Slowly, Baelor’s hand moved from Maekar’s throat to trace over his covered stomach, down his belly, and started to push the rim of his shirt up. The cloth was not removed, just hiked above his thorax and under his chin, revealing his upper body. Maekar’s entire chest was pale alabaster, hairless, flat, the muscles beneath his milky skin not strongly developed yet, and only a few rosy marks stood out.
His scars suddenly felt… too exposed in the open, to the cold air nipping and to mismatched eyes -considerate and loving, yet inspecting. The two brothers had seen each other shirtless countless of times before: covered in sweat because of their sword fightings; rain-drenched after a hunt that lasted too long; annoyed on account of a too scrupulous (and old) tailor. But never that close. And certainly, never when he could feel his big brother’s breath against his chest and weight pressing him down on the mattress.
Baelor nodded to himself, quietly, as if pleased by the view beneath him. He leaned forward, his lips dipping into the hollow of Maekar’s throat. There, he kissed another mark and thus, the descent of his lips down his chest began.
His mouth landed a kiss on Maekar's sternum, just on a pink scar right in the middle, and his tongue lapped at the imperfection afterwards. The quick, wet touch slid under the young Prince’s skin and rattled his bones. He couldn’t think, inwardly writhing at the sensations.
"You don't have to -to do that-" Maekar stuttered through short breaths.
"Hmm," was the only answer from Baelor, humming to make clear that he heard but didn’t really listen.
With his weight on one forearm to lay on the side, his other hand was splayed over Maekar's abdomen, pressed tight and warm. Possessive. Baelor’s hands had always been pretty with elegant, long fingers made to have precision and complete command, and the contrast of his tanned skin against the creamy translucence of Maekar’s was a sight to catch.
Baelor bent his neck to nuzzle the chest of his little brother, breathing in that peculiar scent of him. He lingered there for some seconds and then opened his mouth, licking a thick stripe, alternating gentle kisses and heavy lapping, kissing and lapping, over and over again, unrushed, across the porcelain chest.
Beneath him, Maekar shut his eyes. To hold back any sound, he bit his lower lip between teeth, almost close to drawing blood, but an unexpected move from his brother’s lips thwarted the plan, making his breath hitch in surprise.
"Baelor,” he gasped, trembling. “No, it's not a-"
The rest of the words died in his throat. Baelor was kissing one of his nipples.
In the lassitude of that long day, Maekar thought that maybe his brother, negligently, had confused a nipple with a scar -some of them appeared swollen and dark, like a small grape or a bruised rosebud. Too keen to show his little brother that his imperfections were nothing to be ashamed of and souvenirs to revere, Baelor had simply mixed up the swellings.
a mistake, he reasoned.
Another kiss on the same nipple and a tendril of warmth stole through the young Maekar.
“Baelor… stop-” his plea dissolved in a moan.
The alabaster chest flushed into dusky pink. Maekar panted when he felt the graze of Baelor’s tongue on his left nipple, and he wanted to scream, to laugh, to disappear, to push his brother away, to lock the doors and seclude himself with Baelor for the next week, for the next life...
you and me you and me you and me
fuck you Baelor
But he only found himself shutting his eyes as one of his hands crept into his brother’s dark, curly hair. Baelor’s tongue kept laving at the feverish skin, and his mouth, though smooth and slow, coaxed Maekar's nipple erect with an exquisite suction.
The only sounds in the room were Maekar’s small, gasping breaths and the wet noise of Baelor's lips against his chest. All along, the older prince’s free hand roamed over his younger brother’s abdomen, leaving hot trails of goose bumps where it went. It felt like Baelor was everywhere, assaulting Maekar’s every sense, making him feel so small, so pliable, so young.
The hand ran up over his body and paused on his chest, cupping the other pectoral. Pressed warm, Baelor’s palm began to knead it and moved in small circles, teasing the nipple his mouth neglected. The friction was slow, insistent, but changed drastically when his thumb rubbed over the small nub. Maekar moaned faintly, the sound enough to make the hairs on the back of Baelor’s neck rise.
With his brother’s lips enclosed to one of his nipples, licking noisily, and his thumb and forefinger rolling the other one incessantly, everything became a little bit too intense for Maekar -and crystal clear.
definitely not a mistake, he concluded.
“F-fuck-…” the young Prince’s chest began to glisten with sweat, a blameworthy thrill sinking into him as a warm knot in his low belly backfliped.
Maekar lifted his head from the bed, searching down for his brother’s face -for perhaps Baelor could read an emotion passing through his eyes that the young Prince couldn't grasp.
But what he found was an unknown sight. Baelor, eyes shut, breathed harshly through his nose, adrift in the moment as he eagerly suckled one of his nipples. It was a rare thing to observe considering the young man's tight control over his emotions or appearances, and to see him so completely lost in bliss filled Maekar with a misplaced pride.
He let his head fall back into another gasp.
Baelor’s mouth withdrew from his left nipple, leaving behind a line of saliva. He kissed the shallow valley between his brother’s pectorals, lingering on scars his lips encountered, and opened his mouth to engulf the other rosy bud roughly. Another jolt went through Maekar as the tongue flicked again over the stiff peak, circling the areola, before grazing his teeth on it. But the other nipple wasn’t left untreated: Baelor rolled, pinched the little bud between his fingers, sending sparks down Maekar’s spine.
Maekar had never even considered he could feel anything from this. As far as he was concerned, these two little nubs had always just been sitting there on his chest, aimless, sometimes chafing if it was too cold. And when Maekar sought pleasure alone, he used his hands on his cock, stroking his shaft with hurried, discontinuous strokes, for patience was not the boy's forte… But right now, Baelor’s mouth was unhurried, gentle, without the desperation of inexperience. An exercise in idleness. A slow agony. Patience was indeed one of the Heir of the Throne’s many virtues.
Baelor made a low sound deep in his chest, and sucked once more on a nipple, pressing closer still, and something painful tightened in Maekar's belly. And-
oh no
no no no no
With every of his brother’s ministration, Maekar realized he was getting hard.
fuckfuckfuckfuckfu-
The young Prince shifted beneath his brother, trying to adjust the erection in his tight pants without the use of hands. In an attempt to save the little remains of his dignity, a flash of lucidity made him grab one of the bed pillows and place it on his crotch to hide the hardening of his cock. If he was lucky enough, Baelor wouldn't have noticed his swift move.
Maekar felt his fingers curl into his brother’s hair a bit tighter, his other hand still clenched at the sheets, knuckles white. Maybe he was really starting to lose all his faculties, because he could swear he had the impression his big brother was writhing his hips into the mattress… Another low coo then rumbled in Baelor's throat and it vibrated around the nub caught between his lips.
The noise reminded Maekar, in a foggy corner of his mind -that could still have a thought other than fuckitfeelsgoodfucknoitswrongfuckfuckfuckf- of that afternoon a week ago in the courtyard where he finally got the upper hand after a keenly contested hand-to-hand fight: Baelor ended up on his back, Maekar on top of him, straddling his hips, both panting after the exertion, and his old brother had groaned a deep, guttural sound Maekar had never heard before. That same noise he just let out.
The heat from Baelor’s mouth was incessant -wet, perfect, sinful suction, and the young Prince felt his cock quivering upon the rough treatment. He silently cursed that disloyal body of his, betraying him with sweat and sound and red marks and uncontrollable hardness… A strangled noise escaped Maekar’s lips that shamed him.
"Please," he mewled, though he did not know what for. Mercy? More of the same?
“hmm…” Baelor muttered again as he kept switching to the other nipple, giving it the same treatment as the last. Lips. Tongue. Teeth.
Despite himself, Maekar’s fingers firmly tug at his brother’s dark hair and the gesture seemed to break Baelor out of his trance, eliciting an appreciative groan from him. His eyes snapped open and, finally, Maekar could stare down into those dark pools that were his brother’s ones.
The older Prince took a deep breath through his nose and opened his mouth, giving one last gentle suck to the red, sensitive nipple before releasing it. His hand cupped Maekar’s flushed cheek, thumb running over his cheekbone as he slowly crawled up his body.
When they faced each other, Baelor looked… debauched. Eyes gone dark, pupils dilated to black, lips glossy with saliva, tousled hair, panting hard. There was something extremely gratifying for Maekar to know he brought the always composed and perfect Heir of the Realm to such a condition. His achievement.
mine
The voice that left Baelor’s lips was hoarse and hot. He gulped. "Do you- have scars anywhere else, sweetling?"
Maekar wanted to lie, but he did not.
"... no."
Baelor gave a slow nod. They were now trading breaths, Baelor’s slow exhalations ghosting over Maekar’s parted mouth. The moment lingered until Baelor leant over to place a kiss on his little brother’s forehead and, while doing so, positioned Maekar’s shirt back down on his torso in a more modest position, covering the fresh signs of his ardent devotion.
Both of them kept their eyes open, fixated on each other, looking and waiting for what would happen next. As if reluctant to let go, Baelor slowly pulled away and sat straight on the edge of the bed. He glanced over his shoulder at Maekar lying on the mattress, arms spread, legs still dangling over the edge as he stared at the canopy above them. Maekar opened his mouth: “Don’t call me that.”
“Call you what?”
“Sweetling,” he spit out the word. “I’m not sweet.”
“Yes you are.”
Maekar couldn’t tell if his brother alluded to his character or the taste of his skin, and it infuriated him. “I am fierce!” he propped himself up on his elbows, a frown on his still flushed face. “And terrible. And wild. I am a dragon.”
Baelor’s lips lifted into a fraction of a smile. “You are. And lucky me, I am a dragon tamer.”
The older Prince stood up from the bed and Maekar’s eyes, by their own volition, went right away to his crotch, curious. Had his brother been affected too by what just happened? Or was Maekar the only depraved one, the weak one, his resolution breaking under kisses? To his disappointment, Baelor’s undershirt had stuck out his doublet, crumpled, and hid half of his thighs.
“Valonqar,” Maekar’s eyes rose up at the call, out of habit, “will you join us for the banquet? They will serve your favourite, roast lamb with green sauce.”
Any other day, the menu would have been enough to make him run to the kitchen, but here and now… the pillow Maekar had judiciously placed between his legs was still very much needed and any move would betray his ‘situation’. The last thing he wanted was Baelor to enjoy another victory today.
“Hmm no, I’m not hungry. Just -tell them I feel unwell…” he averted his eyes, the pink shade of his ears slightly deepening. “Apologize to Mother for me.”
“I will.”
Baelor stepped back into the room and tucked his shirt into his pants. It always surprised Maekar that people kept assuming Baelor was emotionless as a result of his talent of being expressionless, because Maekar could guess so many things simply by sitting here in front of him, diving into the depth of his eyes or reading the tension in his neck… and right now, Baelor had an idea.
“Will you join us for the hunt later this afternoon?”
It took Maekar a moment to grasp the question, too distracted by the furtive glimpse of Baelor's tongue licking his own lips. He blinked. “Yes- of course I will!”
Maekar was not very fond of animals but he respected their strengths. Last year, a wild boar almost had trampled him if it had not been for his Father’s swift shot, an arrow right in the neck of the beast to stop its charge. The reprimand that followed had been worth the thrill and it only confirmed his love for the game, a challenge against nature -the raw meat was a tasty reward too.
“Good,” Baelor answered, nodding thoughtfully. “Hunting is a pleasant pastime. Furthermore, accidents can happen.”
Maekar raised a silver eyebrow, which pushed his brother to elaborate.
“These two lords that insulted you,” he paused to gather his thoughts, hands clasped customarily behind his back, “maybe something could happen to them.”
oh
“Hold on,” Maekar sat up on the mattress, always careful to not move the pillow between his legs. For years he'd been hearing about the benevolence of Baelor The Forgiving, the charitable and empathic Prince -qualities Maekar scorned- and he had never dreamed he'd ever have a chance to actually meet the Malicious one. The concept made him grin. “Does… it mean I can kill them?”
Baelor smiled, but his mirth was warm and not mocking.
“That would be a tiny bit disproportionate, don't you agree?” the older Prince explained and Maekar rolled his eyes with a small ugh in protest. “But…I don’t know, an arrow might be shot inadvertently and lodge in the limbs of a hunting comrade. I’ve seen this before.”
“Wouldn't it be suspicious if a skilled archer, like myself, misses his target twice?”
Baelor pondered, moving around, and his voice lowered to a more confidential tone. “Which lord has been the most virulent one?”
The memory made Maekar clench his jaw. “This cunt with his fucking grey mustache…”
“Shoot this one then -in the forearm!” he specified in the same breath, shutting down his little brother’s hope of killing the culprit with a well-placed arrow in the thigh. “And for the other one, well, I could make him fall down his saddle in front of Father and the whole court. He won’t suffer physically, but his ego will.”
A small smirk tugged at Maekar’s lips at the idea of his brother playing nasty for him. “You would do that?”
Baelor chuckled. There wasn’t a chance in the Seven Hells that he would deny his baby brother anything, the battle was over before it had even begun. “Of course I would.”
“You mischievous fool,” Maekar said with delight. “We have a plan then!”
A look of contentment settled onto Baelor's features as he savoured the joy on his brother’s face. "This has to stay between us."
And Maekar nodded.
Behind the door, a sudden clatter of silverware drew both Princes’ gaze to the exit, a reminder that a whole world existed outside of this room, outside of them. The brothers looked at one another and Maekar sighed as the older Prince combed his fingertips through his dark, curly hair.
Baekar straightened his garment and walked over to the door with his usual elegance. At barely ten-and-seven, he already had the proud bearing of an accomplished ruler and the magnetism of the brightest sun. “Are you certain you don’t want me to ask the kitchen maids to save you a plate of lamb?”
Maekar shook his head, “I’m fine,” and his tone sounded sincere.
Gathering his thoughts, Baelor gripped the handle, pushed it down, and opened the door all of two inches, and the noise of distant music came inside. On the threshold on his way out, the older Prince turned to see his brother looking at him. Maekar’s cheeks were still dusty pink and Baelor smiled playfully.
“See you at the hunt sweetling.”
“Shut the fuck up!” Maekar shouted as he threw his pillow at the door closing behind Baelor.
shit
He was still hard.
-